


bury my bones beneath the willows (take me home)

by goldenratio



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Language, One-Sided Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Pining, Post-Reichenbach, Unrequited Love, non-explicit descriptions of torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-26 16:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenratio/pseuds/goldenratio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock grabs his hand, squeezing with force unexpected from a dying man. “Please, Victor. Will you do this for me?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

After the third hour, Sherlock Holmes surrenders to reason and lets hope—treacherous, futile, glimmering hope—fall away. Since he stepped off Bart’s, he has known that his one-man mission was dangerous, suicidal. Any day, any breath, could be his last. Yet, he is—was—careful. His last message to his contact was mere minutes before he stepped into the trap _(stupid, stupid)_ and he wasn’t due for a check in for another half day. It will be hours yet before anyone realizes what has happened. It will be over, by then. Moran planned this well. Sherlock wouldn’t have expected that of him; a fatal miscalculation.

Has it only been three hours since he was huddled on the roof of his filthy little squat, smoking and staring at the stars as they swirled overhead? This time of the year, Kabul is bitter, but Sherlock finds the cold refreshing, conducive to thinking, as he ponders, analyzes, plots. It’s a poor substitute for John, but it’ll have to do. Had to do. He’s found that he rather likes watching the sun emerge from over the horizon, though it means the start of another day away from home. He prefers it to think of it as the start of a day where he comes one step closer to London. Sunsets, he dislikes; another day without victory.

In the here and now, Sebastian Moran smiles serenely and snaps his femur. As his body—just transport just transport—convulses with agony, Sherlock knows with excruciating clarity that he will not see the sun rise again.

Sherlock has been stalking Moran—Moriarty’s elusive right hand man, the final sniper, the last thread—for weeks. If Jim Moriarty was the spider, Sebastian Moran is a black mamba; smoothly efficient and lethal. Sherlock should have realized there was something wrong with the cocaine; a different boy brought it, this time. He was so focused on the hunt, the chase, the work—he failed to notice. People. Such insignificant factors. And yet in this case…his downfall. Poetic justice? The cocaine was tainted, cut, with something else—rohypnol? Ketamine? He’s not sure. In this case, it hardly matters. Data, data, ceaselessly streaming. All of it, useless.

He managed a lucky shot before he lost consciousness entirely; Moran will be fortunate if the damage to his foot can ever be fully repaired. It will slow him down, but pain and anger has made him vicious, added a layer of sadism. Sherlock knows Moran intimately, has compiled a 500 page dossier on the man, an additional 50 pages stored in his mind palace, never to be seen. Moran is an expert assassin, with over 200 known kills and countless unknowns. He is calculated, methodical. Trained as a sniper in the Special Forces, until he left under suspicious circumstances—the rumor was, he liked killing just a little too much. Never trust a man who was dishonorably discharged from Her Majesty’s service.

His signature is quick, clean kills—from a distance. This, however. This is different. This is personal. It will be slow, painful, and thorough. There is something more to this than just a kill. No, this is vengeance. As Sherlock well knows, love is a much more vicious motivator.

His right hand is already broken, from his failed escape attempt. Without his right hand, without his leg…he has little hope of escape. Instead, he sinks fully into his mind palace, shedding the agony, the fetid sewer stink, the copper taste of blood, letting it fall away. Deep inside brightly lit corridors, his footsteps echo as he walks slowly past the closed doors, trailing his fingers over the wood _(just like the library doors at home. He pushes this away)_ and feeling the familiar rush of pleasure over the knowledge stored carefully within _(useless, now. He pushes this away)_. At the end of the hallway, there is a sturdy oak door, with polished gold damask tulips. He pauses, gently tracing the outline of the tulips with his fingertips. This door, he opens and steps through.

The room is laid out like the upstairs room in 221B _(or is it? Who knows what it might look like now. Three years is a long time. He pushes this away)_. He opens the window, allowing sunlight to filter through illuminating dust motes in the air. It’s always warm here. He settles on the hard bed, neatly made with hospital corners. This is where he keeps the good memories, lined up neatly on the nightstand. Here, he is 3, catching frogs in the pond as Mycroft squats by him indulgently, holding an umbrella to shield him from the rain. He is 7, and Mycroft has not yet abandoned him for the world. They sit in the library, heads bent over the chessboard, Mother reading Shakespeare in her melodious voice.

Dimly, Moran methodically breaks the fingers on his left hand, smiling with satisfaction. Sherlock groans, but that it is all far and away. Here, he is safe. He sinks further.

He is 12, and he first hears of the curious case of Carl Powers. He solves the case. The police don’t listen to a gawky, strange boy, but the crystal brilliance of it all enraptures him. His first taste of addiction.

Here, he is 18, meeting Victor in uni, his first true friend. The late nights discussing philosophy, chemistry, physics. What a mind Victor had! Such razor sharp brilliance—one of the few men he truly respected. Such a waste. Mycroft, betrayal, Queen and Country, Sherlock, anger, hurt  _(he pushes this away)_.

He skims over his twenties, pausing only to savor the incandescent pleasure that was cocaine. There are few other good memories from this time. Here, he is 26 and meeting Lestrade for the first time when he shows up high at a crime scene. He’d solved it, of course, but Lestrade had been more concerned about his drug habit to be of any use. It’s the second time he’s arrested. Mycroft is not pleased. Three years later, he is clean and beginning to solve crimes with the Met; the rush of solving cases, the only thing that ever rivaled the sweetness of cocaine. Mrs. Hudson, redolent of warmth and sugar, “A room, dear? Well, I do have a flat I’m letting, on Baker Street…”

Moran presses the tip of the knife into his sternum. Sherlock wonders if he could induce Moran to make a mistake, to cut harder than he means to—hasten the inevitable—but no, Moran is a consummate professional. He knows exactly how and where and what and when to cut. Sherlock, with his limbs useless, would hardly pose a challenge. And, because Sherlock does not believe in lying to himself, he is not quite ready to die yet. He pushes the present away.

The sweet memories rush over him, too few. But here. Here is John. It grieves him how little data he has collected on John Hamish Watson, and how outdated it all is  _(three years is a long time. How has he changed? Does he still think of me? He pushes it away)_. John was only part of his life for 18 months, an insignificant fraction of his 34 ( _rapidly ending. He pushes it away)_ years. Yet John Watson could never be insignificant. Processing him, remembering him—it consumes nearly 25% of Sherlock’s mind palace. How is it possible to not have more data? A paradox. A conundrum. But that is John Watson, isn’t it? The most enigmatic puzzle that Sherlock has ever encountered _(one that he never will solve. The physical agony pales in comparison to the constriction of his heart. He pushes it away)_. Sentiment. He never would have thought. A chemical defect in the losing side. And well. Here he is.

The John files. He caresses them lovingly, slowly savors the 18 months of time with John, the little things, the big things, his smile, his laugh, his infuriating typing, his exasperation, the thrill of his friendship and acceptance, his morning tea. He could never delete anything of John’s. Not all happy—the last time Sherlock saw him, crumpled with grief—No, please, there’s just one more thing, mate, one more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t be dead. Would you do...? Just for me, just stop it. Stop this—the last words John ever said to him. They echo in his dreams, sometimes, before he starts awake and clutches the pistol under his pillow—just a dream. Then, watching John walk away, Sherlock had sworn that he would fulfill John’s request—he would perform for him just one last miracle. But it seems that he may have to break this promise.

Dimly, Moran leans close and murmurs into his ear. “Sherlock. You’ve been such a naughty boy. I think I’ll have to finish what I started, hm? You know, before it was nothing personal, just another job. But now…John will never know what’s hit him. And that nice old lady and Detective Inspector…” He laughs, low and intimate.

Sherlock jerks back to the present, his body seized by fear. John. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. And  _oh_ , that grants him a new burst of energy. He would rip out Moran’s throat with his teeth to prevent him from harming them. But no, he is too weak with blood loss, and Moran is too fast.

“I thought that would get your attention. Wouldn’t want you to get too comfortable, would we?”

He presses the knife into Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock bares his teeth, snarls. Moran laughs, again. “And we’re just getting to know each other.”

Sherlock pushes the present away. John. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. What can he do? Nothing. Just hope that Mycroft realizes what happens, grants them the protection they need. Sherlock retreats.

Here is Molly, fragile-looking, unassuming, but stitching his wounds with a steady hand. “How is John?” he asks. There is a long pause before she says quietly, “He’s not doing well.” He has nothing but silence to offer, but before he leaves, he asks, “Look after him for me.” She meets his eyes and nods. “I will.” He hesitates for a moment—kisses her on the cheek. “Thank you, Molly.” She captures his hands. “Just—come home.”

Here is Mycroft, solemn. “Be safe, Sherlock.” They do not touch.

“I will.”

Time elongates and undulates until he cannot be sure how long he has been here, here in this dark dank basement with pain his only friend. He yearns for home, for warmth, for London, for his friends and brother and _John_ , for all those things he cannot have anymore. Soon, all too soon, the agony becomes all-consuming, overwhelming. Even the force of his mind and his memories cannot hold it at bay. As the memories blur and fuzz, the colors scrambling and bleeding into static white noise, Sherlock prepares to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the transcript of John’s words from The Reichenbach Fall, I used http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/31651.html
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note updated tags. Thanks for reading.

The end comes in the basement of an abandoned clothing factory on the outskirts of Kabul, as an indifferent sun blazes in the glass blue sky.

Hours earlier, Victor is eating a solitary curry in his London flat when his mobile rings; Mycroft Holmes has called in a personal favour, having him head a hand-picked retrieval squad. Mission: Hostage recovery, captured and likely tortured. Hostage primary, all else secondary. Shoot to kill. When he asks about the identity of the hostage—already half knowing the answer—his handler replies in clipped tones that the information is “Irrelevant. Focus on retrieval.” Of course.  Less than an hour later, he is hustling his team across the tarmac to be taken to location unknown. Hours later, when they finally land and he steps into the open air, the dry, arid wind washes over him like a memory.

Victor has his theories and suppositions, but even he could not be prepared for the reappearance of a supposedly dead man. He was on a mission in China three years ago, but even there, he heard the news of Sherlock’s disgrace and suicide, had felt the impact reverberate in his bones, had sent a sympathy note to Mycroft Holmes. He had not been on speaking terms with Sherlock for years already, but he has always felt a lingering affection for Sherlock, and wistful regret he could not say goodbye. Even now, it’s been a decade since he’s last seen Sherlock, but even broken, bloody, and bruised, Victor would know him anywhere. Victor is a consummate professional, but he still allows himself a moment to wonder how the hell a dead man ended up in Kabul, tied to a pipe, very much alive? Well—not alive for much longer.

Sherlock is still breathing, against all odds.  

Sherlock slowly rolls his head toward him, even the smallest movement causing a grimace of pain. His unfocused eyes sharpen. “Victor,” he rasps, “you came.”

Victor barks for the medic before kneeling by him, laying down his assault rifle. Behind him, his men fan out. “Yes, I did.” Too late. His eyes sting. Odd. He hasn’t seen or thought of Sherlock Holmes in nearly 3 years and yet—here they are. He wants to ask him, why, or how, but he suspects that he will not hear the story from Sherlock’s lips.

Victor has retrieved many hostages, has been embedded with many top-secret operations in warzones, hostile territory. He has seen his share of blood, torture, wounds. He has seen men shot, eviscerated, without limbs. Still, it’s painful to look at Sherlock’s twisted, bloody flesh, the exposed bone, his legs at wrong angles, glistening viscera spilling from the body of his one-time well-loved friend. By their estimates, Sherlock has been held at least eight hours, maybe more. It had taken two hours to realize that something was wrong. Only two precious hours, but it was enough. Given the spreading pool of blood, it’s a miracle he is still breathing—but whoever had him was clearly a professional, able to break him without killing him. Not all of the injuries are from his captor. Victor can see where Sherlock tried to break his hand, to try to escape. He had always been a fighter.

The medic, a capable 30-year-old sergeant called Johnson, rushes over. He glances over Sherlock quickly, before meeting Victor’s eyes. He shakes his head. Too late. Victor can feel the air whoosh out of his lungs, but this is not the time for weakness. Sherlock is bound like Jesus on the cross, arms outstretched. Victor unsheathes his boot knife and carefully slices the ropes. Johnson helps lower him to the concrete before Victor dismisses him with a look. Sherlock’s face is so swollen and bruised that Victor wonders if any of the other men know him. He doubts he would have recognized him, if he hadn’t known him so well.

“Victor. If you have any affection for me, at all. I have…one last request. Please.” Victor privately thought that hell would freeze over before Sherlock Holmes would ever ask for a favour. It seems today would be that day. He leans closer. “If it’s in my power.”

Sherlock grabs his hand, squeezing with force unexpected from a dying man. His fingers are twisted and broken, his hands slippery with blood. “Protect John Watson.” His eyes, crimson with burst capillaries, burn fever bright. “I was careless. The cocaine. I shouldn’t have. But it kept me alive thus far…I thought it would be enough.” He coughs, weak, wet, and bloody. “Moran…Moran will go after them. I wounded Moran; it’ll slow him down. But I cannot—I cannot bear—I cannot protect them—him—John. Please, Victor. _Will you do this for me_?”

Victor swallows and promises. “I will do my best.”

“Go…Mycroft. My brother. He will help you. He will know what…to do. Promise. Promise me.” His breath is labored, pained. 

“I will, Sherlock.” 

“Good. Yes. That’s…good.” Sherlock’s gaze becomes far away. “Fuck, Victor. It hurts so much.” He murmurs quietly, contemplatively. “He will never know how much I…how much I love him. I did this all for him.” 

Victor wants to tell him, hold on. Hold on, please. But he knows that it would be futile. Nothing short of the state of the art medical care could even hope to hold him to this life, and the nearest hospital is over 10 miles away. A short distance, laughable, really. But unless he can miraculously learn teleportation in the next minute, it would be too late. Instead, he kneels in the spreading pool of blood, clasping Sherlock’s hands, receiving the last words from the lips of a dying man. Protect John Watson.

It happens quickly after that. Victor can feel Sherlock’s breath slow, his grip weaken, before his hand falls slack. Sherlock Holmes, the one and only consulting detective, slips from this life, the light dimming from his clear eyes.

Victor wipes the blood from his hand before gently pressing Sherlock’s eyes closed. He is not a religious man, and Sherlock would have scoffed at the sentiment, but he bows his head and whispers a blessing to lead him to a better place.

He kneels for a moment more before standing, the weight of his promise settling as he shoulders his rifle.

“Johnson, guard the body. The rest of you. With me.”

Unsurprisingly, the factory is abandoned. Victor grinds his teeth before snapping orders. He needs to move fast. Time is already against him.


	3. Chapter 3

Scarcely ten hours later, Victor is stepping again onto the London tarmac. He spent most of the flight sleeping, but even so he feels tired, bereft of the usual adrenalin rush that holds him up until he can collapse into his bed. He is no stranger to this; hours lost and found again, hurtling through the air at hundreds of kilometers an hour, skipping through time zones, sleep snatched here and there—but still, there is the vague sense of disequilibrium, the slow creep of fatigue. “Shit,” he thinks, mouth curled wryly. “I’m getting old.”

Mycroft must have pulled many strings, to have them back so quickly. Ostensibly, Victor is accompanying the body of one Jeremy Sigerson, a young British national who has perished in action. But inside the unassuming oak box lies Sherlock Holmes. There will be extensive tests before his body is allowed to rest. DNA, dental, X-ray, anything and everything that can be done. Sherlock Holmes has already died once. Mycroft will need to ensure that this is no trick, that this body really belongs to Sherlock Holmes and there is no coming back. Victor will make a full report, documenting what he knows of Sherlock’s last hours. As soon as the report is filed, it will immediately be classified at the highest levels, accessible by Mycroft and the very few with that level of clearance. Even Victor himself will no longer be able to read it. He is not allowed any copy, and will handwrite his report under Mycroft’s eyes. But that is for later. For now, Victor has one objective. Protect John Watson.

It is grey and drizzling, a typical British day. The ordinariness of it wears on Victor. Surely the world must have tilted on its axis? To see a dead man die again? But no, it is only his world that has briefly listed, for Sherlock Holmes, no matter how extraordinary, has not been a true part of his life for a decade. (Soon he will meet the two men for whom there is no longer any axis—but this is no comfort)

Victor stands, back military straight, by the coffin. The figure of Mycroft Holmes approaches, flanked by his lovely assistant. He is impeccably dressed, with a gold watch hanging from his fob chain, and his umbrella, for once, is put to rightful use. When he comes closer, Victor can see the deep grooves in his forehead and around his mouth. He looks as composed as ever, but his eyes are faintly red. Victor has seen the elder Holmes brother many times, in a range of emotional situations. Never has he looked so broken, his shoulders slumped with all the worries of the world pressing upon him. Though, Victor thinks cynically, his greatest burden is gone. He wonders how Mycroft would have received the news. This early in the morning, the call must have reached him in his office in the Diogenes Club, where he reviews the major newspapers while taking his morning tea.

Victor salutes. “Sir.”

Mycroft nods. “As you were, Victor.”

There is a long silence as both men gaze at the coffin. Mycroft clears his throat. “Thank you for bringing him home.”

“Yes. Of course, sir. It was my duty and an honor.”

“I will take charge of the body.”

“Mr. Holmes.” He hesitates. “Mycroft. Before Sh…before he died, he made a last request.”

Mycroft arches one eyebrow.

“He asked…no, begged me to protect one John Watson, whom he believes will be targeted”

“I see.”

“Time is already short. Moran is wounded, but he is a hard man. He will need to regroup, but that only grants us a day or two.”

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Yes. Why? Who is John Watson to you? What possible stake do you have in this?”

Victor shrugs. “I promised him I would. I failed him, before. This is the least I could do.”

Mycroft says nothing, only regards Victor with cool impassivity. Mycroft has known Victor for well over a decade, now. In fact, he recruited Victor; something Sherlock has never forgiven. Victor has always been a man of honor and loyalty. He is very much like John in that regard. Mycroft, too, has failed Sherlock. John is all that is left of Sherlock. Protecting him would be the least he can do.

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, we will protect John Watson. But first…” Mycroft pauses. “Please. I would like a moment alone.”

Victor salutes again. “Of course, sir.” He turns crisply and strides a respectful distance away, Mycroft’s assistant smoothly keeping pace.

Before he turns his back, he can see Mycroft bow his head and place a hand on the coffin.

Later, Mycroft will sit with Sherlock’s body, clutching his cold, rigid hand. He will run his gaze over his brother’s broken body, reading the tale of his last hours on the same earth, and Mycroft can see why people turn to drug or drink to escape the despair of knowing. And he knows, he knows everything that happened, the pain, the fear, the cutting and tearing of bone and muscle and flesh; he can feel the agony that Sherlock endured, and he would give anything, anything to go back in time and hold him when his skin was still whole. And he’s jealous of Victor, jealous that Victor was able to have those last precious moments with Sherlock, and he’s absurdly grateful to Victor, for the knowledge that Sherlock did not die alone. He swears then that he will end Sebastian Moran if it’s the last thing he does.

And later, much later, in the privacy of the shower, with the water running hot, where no one can see or hear, Mycroft will weep, uncontrollably, unashamedly. He will kneel on the floor when his knees can no longer hold his grief, and rest his forehead into the tap and press his hands into ceramic tiles. He will whimper and gasp for air, and clutch his chest where his heart has been ripped out, and crumple and shake with the agony of Sherlock’s absence.

This, he will do for weeks, until he has no more tears left. But as soon as the water switches off, he will compose himself, take a deep breath and straighten his shoulders, to face a world where Sherlock has been dead and mourned for nearly 3 years now.

And it’s irrational. The intensity of his reaction is somewhat startling. Sherlock is his only brother, to be sure, but Mycroft has always known that it would be unlikely that he would ever see forty. Sherlock flirted death, held it like a close friend—or dangerous enemy. But it’s one thing to know this fact, but it’s quite another to see it.

And he’s loved Sherlock since he was a tiny bundle in his arms, loved him as a chubby cheeked toddler, a willful child, rebellious teen, recalcitrant adult. He’s loved Sherlock as long as he can remember, and with their parents long gone, Sherlock has been the main focal point of his emotions. He’s loved nothing else in his life as he’s loved Sherlock, irrationally, wholly. And now. Mycroft is the last of the line, the last of the Holmes.

He’s lost him so many times. Lost him when he was 5 and wandered off, and Mycroft can still remember the sheer terror when he turns around and Sherlock is gone, and he remembers the overpowering relief when he’s found, placidly skipping stones in the river. Those two emotions changed little over the years. He loses Sherlock when he goes off to public school, to uni, leaving him at home, to his own devices. He loses Sherlock when he recruits Victor. He loses Sherlock to drugs. He loses Sherlock to the work. He loses Sherlock to John. He loses Sherlock to Moriarty. And this loss…this loss is the worst of all.

Here and now, it is dangerous to show emotion. He is, ostensibly, greeting the coffin of a young soldier who died in action. There is no reason for him to cry, to show emotion beyond polite regret. He wants to see his brother’s face, wishes he could wail and gnash his teeth and tear his clothes, but what good would it do him? Instead, he can only wear a face of polite, rehearsed grief, appropriate for the death of a valiant soldier.

Brother, he thinks. I have failed you. I am…so sorry. You will…never know.

He feels old.

He pulls himself back to the present. There is work to do. The dead will wait.

Mycroft wheels sharply. “Come,” he says to Victor. He glances at Anthea, who nods almost imperceptibly.

Mycroft’s car pulls up in front of them. Mycroft opens the door, and gestures to Victor.

Inside, Mycroft says, “I would like to first convey my brother’s body to my residence. Then after, we will visit John Watson. In the meantime…” his assistant produces two folders, which she hands to Victor.

He opens the slim folder first. It’s a terse summary of the past three years, beginning with James Moriarty and ending with the last report, dated 2 weeks ago: _Moran appears to be having disagreements with his contacts in opium trade. May be able to use to advantage._

Victor sets this aside. He knows how this ends.

The other folder is much thicker. He flips it open. There is a photograph of John Hamish Watson, MBBS—short grey-streaked tawny hair, furrowed brows over tired brown eyes, and a pinched, downturned mouth. The photo was taken a month ago. Behind it are photos dating back every 6 months for the past 3 years.

So. This is John Watson, the man for whom Sherlock sacrificed everything. Victor skims the report. 40-year-old former army doctor, held the rank of Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers until he was shot in the shoulder while serving with valour in Afghanistan. Due to post-surgical complications, recommended for honorable discharge and invalided home to London. Was introduced to Sherlock Holmes by way of Michael Stamford, a physician at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. Scarcely a day into his association with Sherlock Holmes, Watson shoots a cabbie (hm, definitely got balls) and then moves in with the man (balls of steel). From that day on, they lived and worked together until that fateful, overcast day in May. Immediately thereafter, Watson left their shared lodgings at 221B Baker Street to stay with his sister (Harriet, 48, lesbian, divorcee, recovering alcoholic). He returned to London, but took a flat elsewhere. He never returned to 221B. He found some part time work in the A&E, but eventually began to run a clinic in the East End.

By all accounts, he treats his staff and patients well, but he himself draws no salary. He inherited the vast portion of Sherlock’s assets after his death, which makes him a wealthy man. However, he lives simply. The only concession to his wealth is that he is now able to afford a flat on his own. He has lived alone since.

The light changes—Victor looks up. They have arrived at Mycroft’s London residence, where they pull into a covered garage. A woman with brown hair and worried eyes appears from an interior doorway. Victor wonders briefly who she is—a mistress? That would be unlike Mycroft. She’s rather plain, nice looking in a mousy way, he supposes, hardly one who would catch his eye, but who knew?

Mycroft folds himself out of the car. Victor follows, and helps the driver lever the coffin out. When she sees it, the woman’s eyes widen. She takes an involuntary step forward and looks at Mycroft. “Mycroft…is it…”

Mycroft meets her eyes, grimly. “Yes.”

Her face crumples, mouth tightening. “I had hoped…oh.” Tears slide down her face.

“So did we all, Molly, so did we all.”

He steps closer and speaks to her quietly. Victor watches with detached curiosity. He wonders who she is, that she is trusted with this news. She looks small and frail, with tears shining on her face, but she stands straight and nods determinedly in response to his words. She must have steel at the very core. For the Holmes (just one, now), nothing less would do.

Mycroft gestures. Their small party proceeds into the house, into an interior living room. The first thing Victor notices is that there are no windows to the outside. If he was a betting man, the room is likely soundproof, as secure as any bunker.

Mycroft is still speaking to the woman. “You’ll stay until I return, Molly? It won’t be long. My assistant will stay with you.” She nods. “Come gentlemen, time is short.”

After the men leave, in the sterile, windowless, sound-proof, spy-proof room in the house that Mycroft owns, Molly squares her shoulders and slides her hands into purple nitrile gloves. Behind her, Anthea sits placidly by the door, tapping at her Blackberry with perfectly manicured nails, her Sig close at hand.

From the adjacent loo, Molly draws a basin of warm water from the sink, setting it by a stack of white towels. She stands over the oak box and bites her lip. Well, she thinks. No use in waiting. She steels herself and lifts the coffin lid.

In her career, she has seen hundreds, probably thousands of bodies, but few are so mutilated—and none have been so loved. She stifles a gasp at the ruin of Sherlock’s body, and her heart aches at the agony he endured. She takes the first cloth and dips it in the water, gently washing his swollen face. There is no movement. There is no pulse. She waits, hoping against all hope, holding her breath for long minutes until she is dizzy and her lungs draw in the air of their own volition. She feels almost guilty.

Sherlock Holmes is well and truly dead, there will be no miraculous resurrection, no magic trick, nothing to cushion his fall. His skin is cold, his body rigid, the smell of blood and pain and death all that is left. At that thought, she has to clutch at the box to stay upright. Her tears drip steadily onto his body.

Like the first time, she sews him up gently, carefully, wishing irrationally that she had some lidocaine, anything. After all he’s suffered, it seems a travesty to make him endure even the small indignity of the needle moving through his flesh. She closes the gaping wounds in his torso. She carefully arranges his broken bones. As she works, she can read his pain, his suffering in the pattern of his bruises, his cuts. So she touches him with care, with love, with gentleness, and hopes that his spirit is finally at rest. She is the only one who can do this, and who better than her?

When finally the blood is cleaned, his body made whole again, the cloth drawn over his still face, Molly heaves the lid closed. When she tries to stand, her knees buckle, and she slumps over the coffin. There is a gentle touch on her back, and Anthea is there to lift her up, guide her to the chair. She cries, hunched over, arms wrapped around herself, Anthea’s hand a firm, warm pressure between her shoulder blades. They sit in silence, her gasping breaths loud in the empty room.


End file.
